The Lonely Soldier
by SSJawnandSherly
Summary: John is having a hard time adjusting after Sherlock's death. After a year of desperately trying to keep his life afloat, he attempts to escape his problems by spending time in Africa. Unbeknownst to him, this will only bring him more trouble but it might also bring Sherlock home. (Rated M for language, angst, and explicit sexual content).
1. Rain

_It's raining. It's always raining. Has it always been this grey? You'd think I'd notice the bloody weather. _

John Watson didn't notice much nowadays. _You see but you do not observe_. The incessant tap of plastic against wood echoed through the clinic, grating, piercing, the others were noticing, exchanging glances, and looking at Sarah with pleading eyes.

"John." _Tap. Tap. Tap. _"John." _Tap. Tap._

Wood scraped against tile and suddenly she was beside John who had been bent over a stack of papers he'd been staring at for hours.

"John," her voice was sweeter now as she placed a hand between his shoulder blades. His body gave a startled jerk, silence. The pen dropped from his twitching fingers.

"Sorry..was I-" he saw in that concerned gaze that he had been indeed. "I didn't realise."

"Why don't you clock out early?" Sarah was standing there upright, smiling, the perfect vision of loving uneasiness as she witnessed the unravelling of the weary ex-army doctor she had hired a second time in an effort to keep him sane.

"Right." John sifted through his papers with the tiring realisation that he had accomplished nothing in the last two hours of his shift; at first he thought time was just slipping by faster but now he often found himself with several hours of his life missing and no excuse for how he had passed the time.

_The walk will be good. Nothing like a little air to clear the head._

The rain let up, but only just as John Watson splashed his way outside. Chilled drops struck his skin. It should have made him wince, maybe walk a bit faster like the rest of London, but he didn't. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and began his trek. Engines rumbled past him throwing up water in their wake, it splashed on the calves of his trousers; shoes clicked by, doors were ferociously slammed shut by the wind, there was a delicious hiss seeping out of restaurants as they prepared for dinner. John barely heard any of it. _The Sound of Life_.

Worn shoes pattered up the achingly familiar steps of 221B. Each one creaked under his weight sending some haunting memory flooding through his grey matter; his body froze in the doorway.

"_I said, 'could you pass me a pen?'"_

"_What? When?"_

"_About an hour ago."_

"_Didn't Notice I'd gone out then?"_

John's eyes shot open to focus on the chair, the same chair. Clearing his throat, he shrugged off his coat and hung it behind the door. It had been a big decision to keep living in Baker Street, he had made a few adjustments to it, mostly when it came to space. The room upstairs was packed with boxes of his flatmate's old things, books, lab equipment, and the like. Some things he couldn't live without though. John kicked off his shoes and took a roundabout way into the kitchen, arching between the two chairs that still faced each other, passing the mantle, touching the top of the dusty skull that still sat there, dagger beside it. At least the kitchen was clean now, comparatively. The first year nothing moved. The second year John had left. His absence bled into half of the third year. Now here he was and the kitchen was finally clean, the boxes were put away, life was moving on.

_I should be moving on._

The kettle was on, serving as the only sound in the flat; the flames hissed, licking the metal sitting atop it, blue and orange tangling across the bottom. John sat at the table with his head bowed into one hand. How many times had he memorised the grain of the wood? That long scratch in the table made his lips twitch in sad remembrance. G_it._ His fingers found his temples, rubbing small circles into them as another headache edge its way into the confines of his skull. These spontaneous pains were becoming fairly common, weren't they? John was in the middle of trying to remember when his last headache had been when a soft thump in the other room caught his attention. His head popped up sending a sharp jolt toward his frontal lobe.

"Shit!" John gripped onto his forehead to keep at the rhythmic rubbing, got to his feet, and peeked around the corner to inspect the hall. The cold from his damp clothes seemed to finally seep into his bones as he rooted around for the phantom noise. Satisfied with the wind as his culprit, John entered the old room. One step inside and his head seemed to split at the seams, protesting the intrusion on such a sacred space. John stripped from the heavy, damp fabrics and plopped onto the bed. Even with his body in it, it was empty, much too big for one; he was too small a person to sleep in this bed. Only one body could fill such a space. Both hands dropped to rest on his legs. Nothing could stop the powerful surge in his brain, the painful pulse with which it wracked his mind was numbing—that was nice at least. Another thud outside the door.

"Hello?" John flew to his closet, slipped into a pair of burgundy pants and ripped the door open. Nothing. Anger etched itself into the lines of his forehead. "Hello!" Had someone hit his window? Trotting out to the sitting room he saw nothing except for his perfectly sound glass windows, still, silent. "What the hell is wrong with me?" John rubbed his eyes.

_She's dying. You…machine!_

John's world spun around him, his vision blurry, knees buckling. The only sense that seemed to be functioning was his hearing.

"_This is my friend, John Watson"_

"_Friend?"_

"_Colleague."_

Another thud. Then a bang. The kettle was hissing. John was on his knees threading his fingers through his thin greying hair with that blinding pain searing the backs of his eyes. Moments passed and he begged for his hearing to go, for everything to be silent; the flat was filled with sharp cracks. _Gunfire_. Screaming. _Please doctor, I need to keep the leg_. He could smell it, the sweet aroma of burned gunpowder, that hot metallic scent of blood, Sherlock—oh that smell that was so very Sherlock Holmes.

"_Will caring about them help save them?"_

"_Nope."_

"_Then I'll continue to not make that mistake."_

"_And you find that easy, do you?"_

"_Yes. Very. Is that news to you?"_

"_No. No."_

"_I've disappointed you."_

"_Good. That's a good deduction. Yeah."_

"_Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them."_

"Stop..stop this," John curled on the carpet, pressing his face against the floor to drown out the shrieks, the sounds of war, the haunting memory that had plagued him for the last three years—Sherlock falling. It had been noiseless, slow. The image of his sleek body cutting through the air.

It was as if his brain had compiled every moment of his life that he regretted and played his guilt like a soundtrack in his weary ears. Sweat dripped down his body as his chest heaved for the oxygen he couldn't find face down in the floorboards. When he righted himself to sit on his heels he was struck with the most horrifying images in the windows. Old comrades. Brothers in arms. Beating down his windows, leaving their blood splattered in intricate designs. Mates he couldn't save. Those shadows were creeping in on him, sucking the air from his very lungs and making them burn as he suffocated.

Just as John felt his faintness, the sweet relief of unconsciousness coming over him, it all stopped with one heavy pound on his personal front door. Just like that it and all that was left was the high pitched whistle of the water behind him. Frantic, John looked at the empty windows. All clean, faceless, nothing but the picturesque image of a rainy London evening. John got to his feet. His lungs sucked in the air they had been denied in an attempt to steady his quaking limbs and put his brain back at one hundred percent functioning capacity. Another heavy knock on the door sent him from the kitchen where he'd removed the kettle toward the door. A quick hand combed through his wet mop.

_Compose yourself, no one can know you're a nutter._

The door clicked open. John could feel the colour drain from his face; he was feverish, delusional, obviously. Right? Right.

"Sher-"his feet were taking him backwards away from the surreal human being standing in front of him, "No, you're..." Sherlock was holding up his hands defensively. He looked fine. The perfect image of health really, maybe a bit thin for John's taste but it only made those dashing cheekbones pop more.

"John, listen…I can explain."

"Oh my God, you're…you're here?" The last bit came out like Sherlock's life was supposed to be some well-kept secret between them.

"Yes, obviously." Oh, John could have died watching those striking blue eyes roll in annoyance at him but for the moment he was struck absolutely dumb. He was sure his mouth was hanging wide open as Sherlock strode into the flat with a quick shove at the door; suddenly that brilliant bastard was on about something John could have cared less about. A case? Where he had been? Watching that commanding figure step around 221B like it had never left made John sure of one thing, none of it mattered. Sherlock was _home_.

_Who gives a toss? Sherlock bloody Holmes is here, in front of me. Home. Home._

It sunk in bit by bit until John let his chin drop to his chest and turned away. Sherlock would laugh at him if he saw just how quickly tears were making their way down his face; he had been dabbing at them discreetly, sniffling into his sleeve when he felt a spread of warm fingers curl around his shoulder.

"John?" Another time John might have protested or shoved that hand off his shoulder but he was so tired, so bloody tired of missing the arrogant sod standing behind him. John let himself be turned, inspected, judged probably.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," laughing as he desperately wiped at his face, but it was no use, "I'm so sorry," he sobbed. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to realise how quickly John's meaning had changed in those two apologies. "Please forgive me," John slumped against that strong body, his head cradled near the dip where neck met shoulder, "I've always believed, I never-" there were so many things to say, so many words to apologise for but in that moment, John couldn't. He was beginning to feel like an idiot standing there, covering Sherlock with his blubbering body so that he might leech some strength from the detective but then those long arms were around him, holding him, squeezing back and coaxing new tears out to stain Sherlock's shirt.

"No, I'm sorry, truly."

They stood there. Locked in the warm embrace of two people who had been lost without their other half. John didn't know how long it lasted. It didn't matter. Nothing did. Sherlock Holmes was holding him. He was _feeling_. When they did part it felt too soon, John had made fists on his flatmate's chest, gripping the taut shirt that would surely pop if Sherlock moved too quickly from his grasp. Those firm muscles beneath were moving, away? Closer? John could feel them writhing under his little finger as breath flowed in and out. He was going to protest such a short embrace and parted his lips, but air slipped inside his chest and was immediately thrust out by the crushing of their mouths.

John felt limp in the arms that still circled his waist. Neither of them moved for several seconds before Sherlock broke first.

"Sorry..I've….well I thought you—I've never…"

"Shut up," John grabbed the back of that elegant neck that had to crane down to seal them together again. They were humming together, groaning into the foreign contact that John thought he had forever lost when he buried Sherlock in the ground. At first it was obvious that Sherlock had never kissed someone. His lips were still, rigid, confused as John tore at his mouth mercilessly; a different approach then. The soldier lowered himself off the tips of his toes, softened his hold and lowered it to one of Sherlock's shoulders. Their lips popped apart for a breath, "I've missed you," John sucked in that perfectly bowed lower lip, ran his tongue along it and memorised the taste, the feel, the weight; he wanted to memorise all of it. Everything Sherlock.

Time stopped between them. It was just them, exploring, tasting, remembering, and creating new memories. John smiled into the lips that were slowly relaxing and becoming suppler against his own.

_Mmm, that's it_. _Well done Sherlock._ Later, he'd tell Sherlock later what a fantastic kisser he is.

Eager, teasing kisses ran down that pale neck, nipping at the protruding collarbone just above the buttons screaming for mercy across Sherlock's broad chest; those lovely little gasps being released into the air were enough to bring John to his knees. Not a bad idea really. John released each button, kissing every newly exposed patch of flesh until he'd thrown the shirt to the floor. He took a moment to admire that thinly muscled frame; there had been a number of times that he had seen Sherlock in all his glory but never had he allowed himself to look, to stare shamelessly.

"You really are a gorgeous bastard," that obtained a hearty laugh from Sherlock. It was refreshing to hear that forgotten sound with all its deep richness tickling John's skin as he was scooped into another close hold.

"You're an idiot." Open mouths met, tongues slid in beside one another engaged in a slow dance that had been forever a fantasy. Sherlock ran his fingers up along John's torso, exploring the scars, dips, the gentle curves of muscle, memorising, calculating, storing. Something in him had been stirred, his kisses became feverish as he drew John even closer to feel skin on skin; their hearts threw themselves frantically against bone as if they could defy physics and meet somewhere outside their bodies in the interim. Together. Finally. The duo dropped without a word of consent. John on top, straddling that impossibly thin waist.

"Trousers," he whimpered, hands nudging at his lover's waistband stupidly.

_Fuck. Come on you're a bloody doctor! Get it together, fingers._

It was quick work once his brain finally agreed to transfer the message to his clumsy digits and soon they were writhing on the floor, fingers ripping off the only remaining barrier between them. Flesh against flesh. Hot and hard. Slick with arousal. John wasn't gay. Even to this day he had never looked at another man but Sherlock Holmes was no man, he was unreal. A shadow. Or an Angel. An unearthly creature that somehow had come to be attracted to someone as ordinary as John Watson. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter. Nothing did.

Sherlock took the upper hand, tossing John on the floor with a thud; they were giggling into each other's mouths.

"Keep it down would you? Mrs. Hudson doesn't need to stumble in on this, Christ she'll have more to worry about than her hip."

"If you're going to complain about my methods after being apart for three years," John grabbed Sherlock's face to stop the rude flow of words that were bound to come out. They were laughing again, Sherlock resting on top, they were heat, breath, beating hearts, pulsing bodies, and salty skin. They were John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. "Do you want this?" Suddenly Sherlock's hand was traveling toward unexplored territory, prying between John's legs with a curious finger. Before John could respond his head was tilting back, air pooling in his lungs as the tip of that slim digit simply rested at the unused entrance.

"Christ Sherlock…I don't know," those grey orbs met that impossibly blue gaze and they held each other there. There were no words but they were speaking. John could feel his features being measured, assessed, stored for future reference and all he had to do was stare up at those all seeing eyes; whatever Sherlock saw he knew that was what he wanted.

Silence sat heavy upon them as Sherlock extracted his hand leaving John feeling empty and a bit let down. A smug smirk appeared on those perfectly bowed lips before they curved into a tight 'O' to circle around that same finger. John laid there, mouth wide as he watched the obscenity of Sherlock Holmes wrapping his tongue around his slender finger, sliding it in, out, dripping. His own mouth was watering, wanting a turn at that finger to see just what tasted so good that kept Sherlock pumping it between his lips. The cold air nipped at his newly heated skin. Then Sherlock was sinking, disappearing and taking his warmth with him; he sat between John's legs and finally relinquished that finger to the cavern of open legs below him. Eyes met. Sherlock was pressing, stretching muscles that resisted him despite how thin his index finger was. John wriggled but mostly trained his eyes on Sherlock's and relaxed, as long as he could see that beautiful face he knew he was safe.

Uncomfortable. Full. Torn. John was all those things as Sherlock slipped tenderly inside but, he felt safe. He pressed his shoulders into the floor, arching his back against the alien pressure that felt so very deep inside him; he had closed his eyes now, relying solely on Sherlock's expert powers to deduce whether or not he was enjoying what he was doing—because honestly, he didn't know what he was feeling. Overwhelmed. That was it. John's eyes flew open with his revelation only to stare up into the tenderest look he had ever seen on the detective's face.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock's voice was so low John was surprised it didn't rattle his bones; he let the deep bass coerce him back to earth and soon his hips were moving of their own accord against not one, but two fingers now. The discomfort dissipated leaving behind it a lust for more.

"Sherlock," John wrapped an arm around the back of his flatmate, "Jesus…."

"As many times as I've dreamt of you like this, it certainly doesn't compare to the real thing. You're gorgeous," a tickling brush of his lips swept across John's moist forehead.

Their lips were sealed again, roaming as Sherlock moved quicker, stretched John beyond what he thought possible and elicited the most wicked sounds from his partner; when they parted they got caught staring again, soaking in the other, afraid to blink and destroy the beautiful mirage dancing before their eyes. John wanted more. Needed more. He pressed the back of Sherlock's shoulder, to encourage him, stoking the flames as he let his hand ride the dip of the detective's low back.

"I don't have anything John, it wouldn't be comfortable."

_God dammit Sherlock, get out of my fucking head. No, stay. I want you in here, deducing me, knowing what I'm thinking before I do. But really, get out you loveable idiot._

"This," John pushed his finger between Sherlock's lips and laid entranced by the way it disappeared into the dark wetness, "mmmm, this." His finger pulled out with a pop.

"That's ridiculous it's hardly enough lubrication, John I'll destroy you and you'll never want to try this again."

John gave a more violent shove of his finger into that stubborn mouth, collected a sample, then smeared it over that tight pink ring of muscles himself only to be delightfully pleased at the way Sherlock reacted; his eyes widened, glazed over with a primal lust as he watched John toy with himself and spread that clear liquid over such a vulnerable place. Lithe movements brought Sherlock over John's body, hand against his mouth then brushing over neglected cock, mouth again, John's waiting arse. Eyes met.

_It is going to hurt still._

_I don't care. I need you. I need this, I have needed it for three years._

_I love you._

John felt as if he were being split in two along the ridge of his spine, torn apart ruthlessly only to be carefully knitted back together by the calming kisses down his torso. Then there was a hand at his own dripping prick, tugging in slow long strokes to match the passionate thrusting below.

"Oh my-"his mouth was covered, stolen by the man he'd yearned for his entire life but hardly knew it until he watched him fall. John threw his arms around that set of broad shoulders, hugging, clutching, drawing life from them as the muscles beneath alabaster skin wrinkled and stretched. They were rolling together, pelvis to pelvis, every so often Sherlock would lean back exposing his slender waist and the strong trench-like lines engraved in his abdomen as he added more of the inadequate lube to their writhing bodies; then he'd return like a soft shadow, falling over John with kisses to spare. Their breath was lost between them in heavy puffs, sweat dripped, muscles tightened in resentment at the horrible but breathtaking intrusion. All the while, that wide palm moving over John, slowing down, speeding up, in time with hips that could only be so gracefully skilled from taking hundreds of lovers; but they hadn't, John grinned into Sherlock's neck, that was just Sherlock. Good at everything, down to the last detail.

Sherlock was deep, moving quicker now.

"Sherlock, I-"

"I know."

Of course he knew. John hadn't noticed but those eyes were steady on him, memorising his face, reading him and his body; Sherlock was as attentive in lovemaking as he was at a crime scene and it was beautiful. John crushed their lips together, stifling a cry that surely would have woken the whole street as he hit the edge and came crashing down; Sherlock's free hand had somehow made it behind his head, cushioning his fall as his body relaxed in its sticky glory.

"God John..the look on your face." Sherlock looked absolutely incredulous, as if he'd never seen a sight more arousing and he gave one last strong buck that was his undoing. Black curls splayed across John's chest, he was being filled, consumed, and devoured by Sherlock and his commanding body. They were a pile of bodies seconds later. Heaving on the floor. Holding. Kissing. Touching. This was real. John could hardly withstand the bursting in his heart as it continued its violent flailing, desperate to be held in the hands of its lover; he grabbed a hold of Sherlock, dug his fingers in that mess of hair and simply held them there. Forehead to forehead. Mind melding. Becoming one in heart, body, mind, and soul.

Grey met blue.

"Did that actually just happen? Did you walk into my flat-"

"Our flat."

"…my flat, after being dead for three years, and shag me senseless on the ground?"

"I wouldn't say that, it took a lot of sense to draw that out of you, I think I heard a 'oh Sherlock, please don't stop' somewhere in there."

"Come off it." They were laughing again, this time as they lay entangled in each other's limbs. It felt good to let go, to be whole once more. They were staring again. Silence. A comfortable one though.

"Why don't we have a shower and go out?"

"As long as I get a turn later." John swatted at Sherlock's retreating figure and to the best of his ability, plodded along after him.

They were like schoolboys in the shower, all roaming hands and shy glances as they rinsed. Quiet words of affection were drowned out by the water and old creaking pipes in the wall; no one needed to hear. Fuck the rest of the world. When the water had grown cold they threw themselves out in robes and towels in search of fresh clothing.

"Still taking longer than me, glad to see much hasn't changed," Sherlock was wrapping his neck with the scarf John had always wanted to tug on and so he finally did and pulled the taller man down to connect.

"You missed me, don't lie."

An exchange of knowing smiles and they were out the door in a whirlwind, whipping around the stairs like the old days and into the streets for a cab. John had just lifted a hand, stepped in and scooted over for his companion.

"Oi, I am a bit sore," he was giggling again.

_What is wrong you with John? Running about giggling like a young girlish thing._

The cab began rolling.

"Angelo's then?" John turned toward the seat next to him. It was empty. "What?" he whirled around in his seat to look out the back and saw no sign of the detective. Not even a fleeting coattail. His body slowly sunk back down into the seat. He felt woozy. That pain from earlier was eating at the back of his head making his vision sparkle as he tried to regain his bearings. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was home. They had just-

"_Sher-"_

"_John listen I can explain."_

"_You bloody well should you…you!" John threw a mean right hook._

"_All right…I deserved that" Sherlock was holding his cheek._

"_No," a manic laugh escaped John, "no, I watched you fall Sherlock, I watched you die."_

"_I had to protect you. It was…just a trick John,"_

"_Don't you fucking say that to me! Don't-" _

_Sherlock was surrounding him, filling all his senses, holding him as he slipped slowly into a fit of tears._

"_I'm so sorry."_

_They were silent at first, both processing that the other was real. After three years Sherlock thought John might have moved, gone off and married, he hadn't known what to expect to find here at Baker Street. He found John Watson. A damaged man but by no means broken. Still the strong soldier, wounded in battle but alive to fight another day. _

_They were tangled in each other's arms. _

"_Oh you better run you little shit!"_

_Sherlock leapt down the steps with John on his heels; he must have been chased for several streets before both men stopped, hands on their knees, bent in half._

"_You. Better. Keep. Running. Sherlock." John gasped, leaning back now with his hands on his hips._

"_Or. What?" _

Each memory was different, flashing before John's eyes like someone had set his brain on fast forward. It always ended the same though. Their lovemaking. On the floor, in their bed, on the kitchen table, in an alleyway; Sherlock would profess his love, take John with his body and make music as he plucked the doctor's weary heart strings. Always beautiful. Always surreal. The moment would pass and they'd leave that safe vicinity of passionate romance and all would be lost. John remembered every instance, the build-up of the last year; every moment a dagger in his heart as he realised Sherlock Holmes was dead all over again, never to return, never to bestow upon him that intimate connection of bodies and souls.

Then he forgot it.

John was lying in bed. It was seven in the morning. Time to go to work.


	2. Survival Instincts

**CHP 2**

Everything is quiet, eerily so. There's no clinking of glass against metal, no echo of footsteps that never seem to sleep. No shouting, no groaning, no whining. It's quiet. So unbearably quiet that John can't sleep. Despite the sun still slumbering behind the city's horizon John Watson is out of bed and sitting in his chair only to be met with the chilling image of the empty leather seat opposite him.

It's Tuesday morning. It's five o'clock.

He buried Sherlock on a Monday.

The sun that beamed in through the window was normally blocked by a tall, elegant figure glaring down at the peasantry below. Today those strong rays bore into John's face but, even with their fiery might, they couldn't move the man frozen in thought. Those round grey eyes were focused on a point so distant it seemed unlikely that the seer would ever return and, if he did, he would never be the same. John spent hours like this, eyes glazed over, and red from not blinking, until something outside startled him to alertness; where had he gone for so long?

"_You don't have a girlfriend then?" _

"_Girlfriend? No, not really my area." _

"_Alright... Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way." _

"_I know it's fine." _

"_So you got a boyfriend?" _

"_No." _

"_Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good." _

"_John, erm... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any..."_

"_No. I'm... not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine. "_

"_Good. Thank you. "_

Something akin to a smile sat itself on John's face until he realised that he was back in the present. There were no unwelcome candles where he was, no dazzling scent of marinara sauce and garlic, no intimidating detectives to make him question everything he had ever known about himself.

_You're a real tit John Watson._

The doctor forced himself to his feet otherwise he'd never get on with his regular morning routine. Sarah had offered him a job back at the clinic the moment he phoned, which was precisely three hours after he laid a hand on Sherlock's headstone; he couldn't imagine a stagnant life where he sat about, ruminating on all the things he had failed to say—it was better to work. John turned up his coat collar, tied his shoes, and left the flat like an ordinary man. Though to anyone who knew him it was easy to see the slouch in his spine, the slump in his shoulders and the sadness in the extra lines in his forehead.

Instead of finding peace at the clinic, where patient after patient filed through the door with the common cold, John found himself criticising every move he made as if he had his own personal consulting detective sitting on his shoulder for the sole purpose of telling him what a shit job he was doing.

_Yes. Spot on, John. Of course she has the flu, look at the size of those glands. Don't get too excited, any ordinary idiot could make that one out._

His internal monologue was tearing him from the inside out until Sarah slinked by his desk.

"Everything alright, John?"

He hadn't even noticed her until that pretty pale face was leaning in so that her auburn hair tickled the top of his desk.

"John?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry Sarah," he was laughing, or something like it—a pathetic gurgle of air. "Bit preoccupied," John rubbed his forehead and leaned back in his chair.

"I've noticed," she was smiling, it was genuine and full of an infectious heat that would have spilled over anyone else in that tiny office. "Look, I know you've just lost a friend."

_Best friend._

"But, um, well I was hoping I could convince you to get out tonight." When she was met with nothing but a bland stare she went on, "I know how easy it is to shut yourself in after something this traumatic, I don't want you thinking you're alone because…you're not." Her hand was covering his, squeezing, comforting. Why didn't it help?

"Sure."

_No. No! I really mean no, Jesus Christ._

"Good, after our shift then." Sarah was grinning again. With a flick of her hair she was gone, around the corner, off to save the world one prescription at a time.

John thumped his head against the wood below him. Everything in him protested against the idea of going out. There would be people. Drinking. Eating. Living. None of that seemed inviting when the only person in the world who mattered couldn't do those things any longer.

Noon. Three. Three thirty. Three forty five. Three fifty five. Was it possible for time to start going backwards? John hardly doubted it as he stared down the inflamed throat of another sick teenager.

"_I need to get some air. We're going out tonight."_

_"Actually I've got a date."_

_"What?"_

_"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."_

_"That's what I was suggesting."_

_"No it wasn't. At least I hope not."_

Five thirty. John had to double check the time as he stood at his empty examination table.

"I picked up the last of your patients, you seemed a bit…not here." Sarah was tip toeing to his side to lace her slim arm through his.

"I'm so sorry Sarah, that's…well that's why you had to rehire me isn't it? Not very professional."

"No, not at all." She leaned up and pressed her soft lips against his cheek, "but you've got good reason to be a bit scattered," she whispered with a loving stroke to the back of John's neck.

It felt odd being touched so intimately. For the last several years of his life everything was frequent invasions of personal space with brief intervals of awkward touching and the occasional lengthy glance; he and Sherlock had been like two dancers slowly warming up to one another as they turned across the floor, spinning in and out of orbit but never managing to collide. Now it was too late and their dance had barely begun.

John took up Sarah's arm—he wouldn't miss this chance.

She led the way outside, her long fingers ruffling John's sleeve whenever she noticed him slipping away and meeting his startled look with a warm smile. John always returned the small sign of friendliness but it wasn't by choice. That innate instinct to appear amiable in the company of someone else's happiness made the sides of his mouth twitch upward but nothing stirred within him, not the way it did when his best friend graced him with a fleeting smirk.

John was gone again.

"_That... was amazing." _

"_You think so?" _

"_Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary." _

"_That's not what people normally say." _

"_What do people normally say?" _

"'_Piss off'... "_

His own smile broke through the stoic lines of his face. Luckily it was just at the moment Sarah had muttered something about their cabbie that she thought funny. They laughed, but not together.

Dinner was probably the most horrible decision of John's life. It was filled with awkward silences, forced conversation, and sympathetic pats of his hand every time he was at a loss for what to say. Their situation only improved halfway through their meal when a bottle of wine was brought to the table; John quickly devoured at least the entire portion of the neck and was on his second glass before Sarah had finished her first. It loosened his tongue. Not in any overly friendly sort of way but the words were flowing about work, the sudden flu epidemic, all the shallow topics that wouldn't touch on the only subject John couldn't stomach, even with a belly full of wine.

Eventually talk died again and they were left with hands touching in the centre of the table. Neither of them were certain when it happened but once they were aware they stared at the intertwined digits and the lovely contrast of white against olive.

"Would you like to come back to my place?" The wine had taken over Sarah's tongue.

"Yes." Pain had taken over John's.

They made record time out of the little restaurant that was decent at best and flew out to the street to hail another ride. In the back of the cab they were all hands. Words were silenced by wild kisses that slid over slick lips and teeth. John had his hand down the front of Sarah's skirt when they arrived but neither of them were sober enough to care. The fare was thrown toward the front without a second glance as they fell out of the vehicle in a mess of limbs. Sarah pushed John away with a lovely giggle that melted over John's ears like a long forgotten symphony. She fiddled with the lock to her flat for a moment before they were at it again, tumbling inside, mouth to neck, hand to breast and tossing their clothes behind them.

John didn't make it to the bed, or the couch; he laid Sarah across a small set of stairs that led to the slightly elevated portion of her flat—where her room actually was. When she didn't protest to the odd change of pace John explored her soft curves with his mouth, licking the delicate dip between her side and her hip. His hand resumed its teasing play between her thin thighs, running along the smooth fabric of her shorts. It had been so long since he'd felt a woman. Had the alcohol not been coursing through his veins he might have fumbled around shyly but his body knew what it wanted and aimed to take it. The remaining barrier of fabric was deliciously wet when John finally peeled it off and tossed it further up the stairs.

Sarah was grabbing at him, pulling his hair, sucking on his neck and freeing him of his clothes until only their skin was left, hot, writhing against the stairs.

"John," she gasped as his fingers resumed their sensuous little circles in the slickness of her lust. He grunted in response, bucking once to let her feel how mad those dainty noises slipping out of her throat made him. That solitary digit pressed inside her with ease and elicited a long moan. Sarah's body arched against the stairs, pushing against John's welcome invasion. Two. Three. He was pumping a bit harder now, eyes shut with his mouth covering her milky skin and flicking at each of her pink buds with equal attention.

"Enough," she shrieked. With all the strength in her she hauled John atop her and pulled him into a bruising kiss, "stop playing with me."

John smiled. Maybe that one was real. Their lips caught with their breath as he lowered his hips and sunk into her. They fit, like a man and woman do. It felt amazing. Heat wafted up from her slim frame, engulfing him in all things Sarah—her scent, her voice, her taste as his tongue traced the outline of her collarbone. The way she clung to him, chest heaving so that her breasts pressed against his bare chest, it made him feel _something_. That was better than the cold pillar of ice that had encased him since he watched his precious friend fall only to be caught by the unforgiving pavement.

The slap of their bodies echoed through the halls.

"God yes!" Sarah's nails dug into his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around John's waist. They moved together, as lovers do.

Sarah was a pile of squirming flesh, vibrating beneath John each time he filled her. John said nothing. He wasn't there but his body knew what it wanted. With his face buried in the nape of that gorgeously long neck, he fastened his arms around her tiny waist, pulling her hips up to slide himself deeper until his name was bouncing off the walls and reverberating back in his ears. Her body was singing to him, humming as she tipped over the edge and held onto him to keep herself in her skin.

It was just enough, watching her red lips widen, her body clench, back held in an impossible curve—it brought John to his knees. He was quick to pull out but too drunk to choose a proper destination for his thick juice which led to the mess being made across Sarah's torso. They stopped. With short breath they stared at one another.

"Sorry…didn't think that through." A short gust of a chuckle left him until he was back to panting and leaning on the railing. Sarah didn't seem to mind. She sprawled across the stairs covered in the very essence of John Watson.

"Don't apologise," she cooed up at him.

Before long they parted. Sarah excused herself to the shower and left John sitting naked on the steps. The weary doctor stared at his scattered clothes but couldn't muster the drive to pick them up just yet.

He was angry. Wasn't sex supposed to cheer him up? Why didn't he feel drastically different? During it all he had forgotten the nagging emptiness in his chest because it was being filled—only momentarily with Sarah. Then he sat alone and that crippling loneliness crept back into his heart like an unwelcome squatter.

John took up his things and began to dress. Apparently it had taken him quite a while to muster up the will to move because Sarah was pattering down the steps.

"Leaving?"

"Eh, yeah." He turned as he buttoned his shirt.

"Okay." She was smiling, again.

His hand was on the door handle.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"See you tomorrow."

"Of course."

"I'd like to…well I'd like it very much if we did this again." Sarah's words plopped off her tongue with difficulty. The booze in her system made her wobble in place but still she kept on smiling.

"Sure." John nodded once before he escaped into the cold night air.

John Watson wasn't a lying man, he would surely do this again. Even if it didn't stoke any sort of flame within him, at least nothing like love. It was a pure primal urge that he was satisfying which led to his feeling just as broken afterwards. The temporary reprieve from dark thoughts was relieving. Yes, he'd do this again and as many times as he needed to pump that sodding detective out of his thoughts.


	3. Recompense

The awkward dates between John and Sarah became more and more frequent. There was never any more talking than usual while they stumbled around one another, tripped over their words or found that they simply didn't have any to say. They stayed because at the end of all the painful socialisation there was always an explosive ending. John had taken Sarah countless times; several times on her stairs, twice on her kitchen counter tops, once against the glass doors leading to her garden, and eventually in her bed. In those short few hours of courtship Sarah became an outlet to a certain type of detachment John could never achieve on his own. His brain was entirely powerless when his flesh took over—those were moments he lived for. To feel something other than that all too familiar heart-wrenching pain. Some days when he looked at that empty leather chair, or brushed by that blue scarf on the wall, he could feel an ache so deep in his body he thought it might shatter his bones.

He never imagined he would miss Sherlock Holmes like this. John had lost many friends, even a few family members but none of those losses affected him so deeply. On the particularly bad days when his grey eyes opened he felt as if half of his body was missing, torn off when Sherlock hit the ground, only to be carelessly stitched together enough to keep him alive but not to keep him functioning properly.

Some nights he prayed his heart would stop in his sleep.

_Please God, take me away from this pain._

His nightmares had returned. The war was raging in his head. Night after night he saw his comrades fall; the stark room around him was filled with severed limbs, familiar bloodied faces, grenades, screams—Afghanistan. John woke from those as he had before, drenched, hot, shaken.

There were rare nights when his dreams were drastically different. Gone were the echoing shrieks of pain only to be replaced with those soft last words.

_Goodbye, John._

Every time John would reach out and swipe at the air as if he could catch Sherlock's plummeting figure and each time he hit the pavement with a sickening thud. Though John couldn't attest to hearing or even seeing Sherlock's body hit the ground, his imagination ran away with what it must have sounded like, looked like, _felt_ like.

Those were the worst nights. John would be upright in a bed too large for his stocky frame, grasping at the empty space next to him and finding nothing but billowy fabric. Sherlock was really gone. When he could admit that to himself he found his resolve shattered.

"_My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."_

That was the first time he lost it. In front of his therapist. Then several days later he had his first night terror. Fresh tears flowed as he lay gasping for air and screaming out Sherlock's name. Those had become such regular occurrences now that he longed for the hideous dreams of blown up friends and failed surgeries just to avoid the image of that beautiful alabaster skin bathed in dark blood.

It was exactly seven months since the detective fell. John was still working. Life was happening. The world was turning when it had absolutely no right to.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Finished?"

"Yeah, just got a few notes to write up," John looked up from his desk. Sarah was standing there bright and beaming.

"Want to go out?"

John looked down at his paperwork, mouth hanging, brow knitted together. He never usually hesitated, except on _these_ days.

"Oh," Sarah nodded knowingly when she caught the flick of John's eyes toward his calendar. "Not a good day then."

"Not for..that..no."

"Just drinks then?"

Sarah never failed to astound John. After all of their horrible nights on the town he assumed she only kept coming back for the guaranteed sex once it was all finished; yet, here she was, offering to take him out without the promise of a happy ending.

"You shouldn't have to go through it alone, you don't have to…" John felt close to tears.

"I'd like that, very much."

At the end of their day they found themselves nestled in the back corner of a pub down the street from the clinic. As usual their talk was stilted and shallow. To an outside observer they had the look of a couple on their first date trying to feel around for common ground. It wasn't until they lost track of the number of drinks sliding down their throats that Sarah tried a different approach.

"Tell me about Sherlock, John." She could tell by the way her co-worker's head snapped up that everyone in John's life had avoided talk of the late detective—including herself. "Come on then, it's no secret that we're the worst conversationalists in London and I can only assume it's because we haven't found the right topic. So, tell me," she demanded softly as she leaned forward on the table.

John felt his stomach churn the heavy lager sloshing in his gut and his chest tightened. Maybe he would just pass out before he actually had to say anything.

"Sher-"he grimaced at the gruffness in his voice, Sherlock's name deserved to be spoken off of more poetic tongues. "He was…is…my best friend, even if I wanted to wring his neck most of the time," his chuckle came out strangled but, it was there. "The man was a bloody nightmare!" John shifted in his seat and began speaking with his hands, "this arrogant bastard could play the violin, I mean _really_ play, but whenever he was in one of his moods—which was always, nearly, he'd just sit in the living room and screech on it for hours."

Sarah couldn't help but smile as she watched John's features light up, suddenly he looked younger; the lines on his face smoothed out, his eyes shimmered even in the dimness of the pub and he looked more alive than she had seen him in months.

"It didn't matter if I was sleeping, in fact I think he waited until I was asleep!"

"Did you say anything, ever?"

"Well, no. You see…after every atrocious concert he would play a set of my favourite pieces. Recompense, I suppose. He knew it was ear splitting but I also think he _had_ to do it. To think."

John was lost a moment, Sarah could see him drifting away to the days when Baker Street was warm, when it was a proper home.

"When you've got a restless mind like his I don't imagine it's very easy to be in there all the time, you know?"

"I don't understand." She leaned her cheek against her fist with an interested expression.

"It was like a well-oiled machine—his brain. Brilliant. It was just, brilliant. He'd always say he couldn't just 'turn it on and off like a tap'. So maybe plucking at those strings was a coping mechanism during the times he couldn't escape the voraciousness of his own head." John scoffed at the revelation.

_You're a bit too late with that deduction._

"But he'd play your favourites? As an apology?" John nodded and smiled faintly.

Sarah prodded John for new stories for hours, the more drink he had in him the more freely they came and the more intimate his confessions were. John was leaning on his hand, elbow on the table, rubbing at moist eyes; Sarah held his opposite hand in both of hers.

"It isn't your fault John…what happened."

"Maybe it's not my fault but I could've done more! He knew, he bloody well knew that Mrs. Hudson being shot was a trap and, and…if I had stayed-"

"If you had stayed Sherlock would have found a way to get rid of you," she corrected quickly.

"I called him a machine," he whispered, ignoring Sarah, "my last words to him face to face. Do you think I made him jump?"

"No."

"Maybe he thought I'd lost faith in him or-"

"No. John."

"Everyone turned on him so quickly, even Greg seemed to have doubts near the end. I-"

"John Watson you didn't make him do _anything_. Sherlock was a genius-"

"Is."

"…Is a genius. Whatever his breaking point was…I'm sure he had a good reason."

"Yeah, like his only friend not believing in him."

Silence fell between them. Sarah had not realised where John's head truly was until now. Seven months after it had all happened, seven months he had been telling himself he was the cause of Sherlock's fall, or at least a large contributing factor. John the doctor. John the helper, the caregiver, the heart—he couldn't fix Sherlock Holmes, or felt in some way he had added to the damage.

"John," she whispered with a squeeze of his hand. "Why don't you leave London for a bit?"

The weary blond raised his head.

"I've only just started work," he croaked weakly.

"We can grant you an extended leave, for work abroad. There's a new relief effort being established in Uganda, I know a friend at the head of it all maybe he could help secure you a position."

"Uganda? Africa?"

"They're desperate for help, it would be good for them to have someone so experienced out there and I don't think it would hurt to get away for a while."

They sat, hand in hand while John mulled it over. Leaving was an option he never considered and it was, after all, for a good cause. But leaving meant so many other things. Didn't it?

"What's going on in there?" Sarah reached up to brush away a lock of John's hair.

"Does leaving mean forgetting? Am I…trying to erase him? Because I don't want that Sarah-"John choked on his words, trying to stave off the tears that seemed permanently stuck behind his eyes. "I want him back." That was the first time he lost it in public in front of someone who wasn't his therapist.

Unsure of what to say, Sarah just held her friend's hand and watched him come undone. It was unnerving to see such a strong man crumbling and piece by piece, John fell to the table until nothing was left but his bloody heart thumping cruelly in his chest. It scared her to think how much John might actually wish that life sustaining organ would give out so that he might be closer to his beloved friend; though by now she was fairly certain there was more to the 'friendship' than John was ready to admit.

"Leaving is not forgetting. We never forget, John. We move on but we never forget." It was difficult to comfort the doctor because she couldn't use those stereotypical condolences.

_He wouldn't want you to be sad, he's in a better place now, and he would want you to move on._

In all reality she had no idea what Sherlock Holmes would say and, even though it went unsaid, nobody liked to hear those things. For John, Sherlock was not 'in a better place' because the best, safest place in the world for his precious detective was under the roof of their flat, within John's sight. Now, Sarah didn't know Sherlock but she would have bet any sum that the detective wouldn't have wanted John to be so distraught—no friend wants that.

"I'll call my friend tomorrow," her voice was low under the murmur of the pub. She stroked the back of John's head now that it was lying on the table, defeated. "I'll call him and we'll get you on a plane to Africa so you can heal. When you feel strong enough you can come home, how does that sound?"

John was a blubbering mess before her but she heard a small whimpering confirmation. Leaning forward, she kissed the crown of his head and rested her cheek there.

"I'm so sorry John," she cooed. Her heart broke for John Watson. She wrapped him up in her arms as best as she could, shut her eyes tight, and desperately tried to absorb his anguish.

_Please God, no one deserves this much pain._

It was well into the night when John finally calmed down enough for Sarah to take him home. They scaled the steps of his flat together, her arms wrapped around him like a mother trying to shield her child from the harsh world outside. She laid the doctor in the room she immediately assumed was Sherlock's because it didn't look a thing like John, everything was meticulous, dark, and cool. John was like the sun in such a bleak vacuum of a bedroom. Sarah put a hand to her chest as she left, the amount of Sherlock Holmes that still littered the flat after seven months was astounding; it still looked as if two people lived in 221B. She sat in the chair that looked most like John and listened to the wind rippling past the windows.

The violin was on the floor, tipped against the black leather armchair as if the owner set it there for a moment with every intention of coming back to play in a few minutes. There were books on the shelves that were no longer regularly dusted so that old fingerprints were still visible but very nearly covered by new debris. John hadn't touched a thing. Not even the Cluedo board stabbed above the mantle. Sarah brought her hand to her mouth and let out a quiet sob. The moment a person walked in through the door frame there was a distinct heaviness, an unmistakable sadness that couldn't go unnoticed. She felt it, every ounce. Her very soul was shaken by the disturbing scene she found in Baker Street. A man unable to move on. A man pining for his best friend. A man who hadn't said or done what he wanted in time.

Sarah had seen enough. She gathered herself up and fled the flat for the freeing air outside. John needed to leave.

8 Sept, 2013, 1:30am

Sarah seen leaving the flat—MH

8 Sept, 2013, 1:35am

Should I do something about this?—MH

8 Sept, 2013, 1:45am

John should be socialising again, it's good for him.—SH

8 Sept, 2013, 1:46am

You aren't worried?—MH

8 Sept, 2013, 1:47am

What John does with his personal life does not concern me. Not anymore.—SH

8 Sept, 2013, 1:50am

I could have her removed.—MH

8 Sept, 2013, 1:55am

A lovely sentiment brother, but hardly necessary.—SH

8 Sept, 2013, 1:56am

Now leave me alone, shouldn't you be single-handedly infiltrating the Korean government?—SH

8 Sept, 2013, 1:57am

You did ask me to keep an eye on him.—MH

8 Sept, 2013, 2:00am

Thank you.—SH


	4. Parting

**CHP 4**

_I've learned to like the rain. It makes me think of you._

John laid clutching his pillow as he watched the rain splatter across the window. He was in Sherlock's bed—had been every night since the detective couldn't fill it with his own body.

Sarah had called her friend like she promised but he told her nothing was set in stone about their sending a team of doctors to Uganda. It was a budding idea inspired by the recent success of the United Kingdom Health Alliance initiative in Zambia but, that's all it was for now—an idea.

That was five months ago.

It had been a full year today.

John wasn't scheduled for any clinic work. He figured that much was Sarah's doing.

_What shall we do on our anniversary Sherlock?_

The doctor pressed his face into his pillow and breathed deeply, hoping to catch any lingering scent of his old friend. There was nothing. Just his own soap.

After several hours of lying awake, John wished Sarah hadn't given him the day off. Not today. What was he supposed to do without the distraction?

The doctor was fumbling through his morning routine when the idea hit him; he knew how he would spend his day. A quick cuppa, some warm clothes, and an umbrella and he was out the door. It had been, well…a year, since he'd been to Sherlock's grave. He never wanted to go back. That seemed a pointless gesture to him, the detective would never know he visited, maybe Sherlock wouldn't even have wanted him to visit—he'd think it soft, ordinary, human.

John arrived and stood at the edge of the grass. Across several rows of stones he could see the solid black one, glinting underneath the falling rain. A deep breath. His foot squished the soft earth below. How many steps did it take?

Fifty one. Exactly.

He turned on his heel, back straight, chin up; at first he gazed out over the black spot, watching as a flock of birds darted through the grey sky in search of shelter. Another breath. His gaze fell on those big bold words.

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

It didn't affect him as horribly as he thought it might. On his way over he had visions of himself falling to his knees with one glance, clutching at his chest to make sure his heart was still beating within but, he simply stood. Those sad grey eyes traced the deeply etched name, once. A hundred times.

"Isn't this bit supposed to get easier?" His voice was strained. "People move on, Sherlock." He laughed at himself, hanging his head as it shook. "People get better, they-"John wasn't sure what _they_ did, he only knew what he did. "I miss you," he whispered so quietly he was sure the pounding droplets around him drowned out his words. "I can't stop missing you, I can't move on, I can't…stop sleeping in your bed, I think about you…always. Even when I'm not supposed to." Unsure of whether the drops on his chin were tears or rain, the ex-soldier wiped his dripping face. "When I'm staring down a kid's inflamed throat, every time I open the fridge and there's no milk, no fingers…when I shag Sarah. That's fucked Sherlock, so very fucked." Another painful laugh rumbled to the surface.

John looked down at the grass. It was a solid patch now, the lines that had been dug out were fully sealed, locking away his best friend forever. They were tears. Those little drops hanging off his nose and chin—they were hot.

"I've got to go Sherlock," he gasped with a shaky breath, "I can't do this anymore," he motioned between himself and the headstone as if his old companion was standing there. "I can't." John's shoulders rounded as both his hands came up to cradle his face. "I'm sorry, I'm not…leaving you, Sherlock. Please don't think that. I just don't want to be in London if you're not, I don't even want to be in this world when you're not."

Those war-torn hands fell back to his sides but his shoulders were still hunched as he stared at that lonely headstone. What had Sherlock done to him? He felt unreal in his own life, like he was a spectre floating in and out of reality.

"I wish you had taken me with you."

John took a small step forward, making sure to steer clear of where his friend was actually buried. Two fingers slid onto the slick surface, then three.

His whole hand wrapped around the top as he exhaled. Just for a moment John imagined it was Sherlock, his shoulder maybe. John squeezed harder until he brought himself to one knee in front of the stone. His forehead met with cold marble, now it was Sherlock's chest. The rain pattered down across his shoulders, soaking his jacket and the blue scarf he wore around his neck. Sucking in a breath he let his other hand grip the side.

"I'll see you soon, I promise. It won't be forever." John cried. John clung to that headstone because he knew any time apart from Sherlock would stretch out like the vastness of space in front of him. It would feel like forever until he saw that tall outline with its raven curls standing at the pearly gates, or wherever two men like them ended up.

John stayed there on bended knee until his joints ached with the cold water that had seeped through all his layers. Drawing himself up, he gripped the top of the headstone with both hands, fingers splayed out wide along the back of it.

"_The stuff that you wanted to say. But didn't say it..."_

"_Yeah."_

"_Say it now."_

"_Well... I'm sorry, I can't."_

_Say it now, John. _

"You're my best friend Sherlock, the only person in this bloody world I give a shit about and that will never change. I-"Numb fingers squeezed tighter, desperate for the heat of Sherlock's body. "I do…love you, as a person loves another person," he let out an unsure groan, "that's not quite right is it but I'm sure I don't need to tell you that."

John sucked in the wet air around him and released Sherlock's beautiful headstone. One last slide of his hands. One last look. God he wanted to fall back to his throbbing knees and hug the last shred of Sherlock. Those thick shoulders righted themselves, his head tipped back up, he turned on his heel and left.

The rest of his day slipped by unnoticed. For the better part of it he had stood in the shower staring at the plaster of the wall, unthinking, numb. When the tap ran cold he sat in his dressing gown with an untouched cuppa in his hands. It wasn't until the ring of his mobile chirped through the empty flat that he was roused back to life again.

"Hello?" He placed the tiny electronic next to his ear.

"John, it's Sarah. I've just heard from my friend George, he said they've made enough progress to start hiring doctors on. He wants you to be one of the first flown over, if you've decided to go through with it, that is."

"Yeah…" John held the phone and reflected on his day. There was nothing left for him here. "Yeah, I'd love to."

"That's fantastic John, really. I'll fill you in on the specifics tomorrow but from the way it sounds he'll have you out of here by the end of the week."

"Great."

"How was it today?"

"Fine."

"Did you…do anything?"

"No, not really. Stayed in with the rain and all."

"Oh yeah, ugly weather today. Well, keep warm. If you need anything just let me know."

"Yeah. Thanks Sarah, again, for setting all this up. I-I really need to leave."

The quick drop of his voice made Sarah gasp softly.

"Oh, John. I know darling. I can come, do you want that?"

"Please."

Their call was dropped and within twenty minutes Sarah was beside him with her warm hands wrapped around one of his. It didn't take long for their lips to meld, parted, breathing in one another as they peeled off the fabric between them. Sarah's thin body was planted on Johns, knees stuffed into the sides of the chair as he faced him and wrapped her arms around his neck; they writhed there, bodies slipping against each other to find that sweet friction.

A pale hand vanished behind Sarah, her back arched gracefully as she wrapped her hand around John's hardening cock. She knew it was simply a reaction to the way she rubbed against him, a physical instinct. John Watson did not love her, not romantically, not in a way that made sex mean something more than carnal satisfaction; with anyone else that might have bothered her. Her thin hips rose and fell with her hand causing her to run the smooth skin of her backside up along John's shaft.

"Mmm," his head was tilted back, cushioned by the armchair below him. John was nibbling at his lower lip and watching through heavily lidded eyes as she teased his wanting flesh.

Grinning like a sly little mink, Sarah left John's lap and sunk to her knees. The tip of her tongue flicked the clear bead of precum off, spread it across her lips with a melodic giggle and sunk down around John's thick girth. His body went taut, hands gripped the arms of the chair, and with a single downward motion he was disconnected from his brain—a state he preferred these days. Sarah teased him like this, popping off, circling the engorged head with the thick muscle in her mouth then swallowing him whole for one bob. Each time she lowered her mouth John would twitch.

"Fuck Sarah," he growled with a roll of his hips to meet her this time.

"Bedroom?" She looked up at him as her hand took over and spread her saliva over his hard skin.

Without thinking, John bent down and scooped her up into his arms; he made it three steps down the hall before he realised where his destination was. The air began to cool them both when John froze in the hall.

"John." Sarah was kissing along his jawline, "we don't need to go in there."

He nodded slowly. John was clutching her small frame to his, staring wide eyed at the room he nearly desecrated.

"Upstairs?"

"No, there's…it's cluttered."

Not to mention everything in there was Sherlock's. It would almost be worse to be surrounded by Sherlock Holmes than to just sleep with a woman in the detective's old bed. John took Sarah to the couch. He laid her out gently then sunk down on her body; their lips touched, tongues slipped, it only took the sweet press of her hips against his to disconnect again. John was all body, gripping her hips and positioning himself for the satisfying thrust inside that made them both sigh. His lover's delicate arms wrapped around his torso, holding herself close to his chest as he drove his cock inside her tight body.

"God yes, John!" Her breath poured into his nostrils, she filled his senses but none of it registered. John was lost. Instead of those smooth, milky breasts that his hands enveloped he imagined a hard chest. Those dainty legs were much longer in his mind, thicker, stronger as they locked around his waist. His fingers were cloaked in black curls instead of that gorgeous ginger hair. Sarah didn't exist. Maybe if she had known that these meetings would have been fewer. Maybe not. John bit down on the perfect curve of her neck but only found himself thinking it was too short to be Sherlock's. He righted himself, took hold of her legs, threw them both over one shoulder and steadied himself with his other hand on the back of the couch.

"Fuck," he grunted as the sweat trickled down his chest. There was no warning when he pulled out, they'd been through this already. John spilled across Sarah's chest. She was smiling up at him, running her fingers along his biceps. Maybe she had expected it to be fast because she didn't seemed to be bothered. "Sorry," he smiled slightly.

"Don't be." She leaned up and kissed him. "I'll miss you," she confessed under the incessant patter of rain.

"I'll miss you too." John held her neck to draw her in again.

"Maybe we can pick up where we left off when you come back?"

"Maybe."

They laid together the rest of the evening. Sarah cradled John's head in her lap while her fingers scraped lightly at his scalp. She knew she wasn't invited to stay over, at least not in either of the beds; so, when John was on the edge of sleep she took him to bed and left.

The next day John was filled in on Uganda.

Five days later he was at the airport.


	5. Heat and Dust

John loved to travel. It was part of the reason he enjoyed being in the army, but at the end of his seven hour flight he was more than ready to be rid of stewardesses and aeroplanes.

His first step out into the Ugandan world was hot; the air felt so much thicker with the humidity. It was raining as John was stepping down the stairs of the plane, looking up at the drizzling sky he smiled.

_I can't escape you anywhere, can I?_

Sarah's friend, Nigel, was waiting for him on the runway with his umbrella leaning against his shoulder.

"John Watson!"

"Mr. Crisp." The smile he'd been practising was plastered on his face as he stuck his hand out.

"It's a pleasure, we're excited to have you on board and one of the first out here! Most of the doctors—well, you'll meet them. They're young but enthusiastic."

"I remember those days," he sighed. Both men laughed as they walked to the street which was mostly dirt road.

"It's not what you're used to—"John stopped Nigel with a wave of his hand.

"I've served my country long enough to be used to anything."

They piled into a truck waiting outside and started for the village where John would be head surgeon. At first it felt daunting to be given so much power but the long ride, beautiful scenery, and reassurance from the closest thing he had to a friend out there made him optimistic. From what he had gleaned from Lord Nigel was that the entire operation was very touch-and-go at the moment. There was always a lot of butting heads when one country enters another with the intent to 'help'.

"Sometimes they don't believe they need help." Nigel went on to explain as he wound around large holes in the dirt road. "The Ugandan government allows us to be here under very strict circumstances so it's important for us to keep our noses clean and avoid stepping on any toes."

"That's why it's taken a while then? They don't really want us here?"

"Perhaps the ruling officials don't, but it was the same in Zambia. Trust me, the locals will not waste an opportunity to express their gratitude. You're bringing them healthcare advancement that they'd otherwise miss out on. Always remember John, politics is not the game we play; we're striving for the betterment of people less fortunate than those in our beloved country. If you remember that and keep your intentions well placed, you'll never wake up on the wrong side of the cot."

John could have listened to Nigel for hours, and he did. The ride to Lira in Northern Uganda took several hours from the airport. The village was already being assisted by other healthcare efforts but, as Nigel had put it, it was safer for the UK alliance to start where others had started then go where none had gone before. John quite liked the community. From the moment their truck came to a stop he could hear the excited cries from the people he was about to treat and amidst the plume of dirt that surrounded their vehicle, he could see dozens of faces popping up to see who he was.

The city was by no means London but it had a primitive charm, buildings were made of bricks and clay, some homes were even roofed in by straw. It was beautiful and it was nothing like home.

By the end of the day he had met at least four other doctors, several members of COHU, and was shown to the lodging he chose. When given the choice between a shoddy hotel room in the centre of town or a carefully constructed hut complete with mosquito netting, he chose the hut. His things were thrown to the side as he collapsed on the cot that would be his bed for the next year and a half.

Not once had he thought of Sherlock. Did that make him a terrible friend? John stared up through his netting at the small cracks in his roof; through the darkness he could make out the most brilliant stars he'd ever seen. There was one bright one. Smack dab in the middle of his hut, glimmering almost obnoxiously.

_Did you follow me here?_ _You never paid attention when I left the flat before._

It eased John's mind to think that maybe Sherlock's soul had made the trip with him; though that begged the question as to whether or not the detective had gone to heaven. That made John laugh. Sherlock had been an absolute prick throughout his entire existence and yet John Watson was sure that there was a special place reserved for him up next to God. Sleep came swiftly after a day of travel and information overload, but it didn't come before John shut his eyes, breathed in deeply, and told his star everything he had ever wanted to say to his best friend. If he couldn't be honest with Sherlock while he was alive, he could at least honour him in death and spill out all the sentiment stored in his heart.

**5****th**** of February, 2013 (Day 1)**

I've officially been through day one!

Dr. Thompson encouraged me to keep up my blogging, or some sort of written documentation of my life. There's no wifi here so I suppose I'm mostly writing it for me since posting it on the website is near impossible. Well, here it goes.

Today was, amazing. Absolutely insane, but amazing.

I met with some of the younger lads who are working under me, they're good men and despite their lack of experience they're good doctors as well. At first I thought the day would be spent briefing us, maybe a tour of the village, meeting the heads of everything. Christ was I wrong. I came to find out that I am the head of everything, in this branch anyway, and there was no orientation, no meetings, we were just thrown into the fray without so much as a single cushion. I loved it. Absolutely.

From five in the morning until ten at night I saw person after person with ailments of such varying degrees that I was forced to drop all my pre-conceived notions of what I was going to encounter here. Of course there were cases of malaria, hep A, typhoid fever, and trypanosomiasis; which, I was expecting but there were other things, smaller things. I couldn't believe that these people didn't have the basics to cure something as common as a cold, or splints for sprained fingers, or any sort of antibacterial agent for wounds sustained in their daily lives. This is the ultimate culture shock. Really, it's surreal. I've seen bad things, terrible things but I've never really been able to see so deeply into the rotten infrastructure of countries less developed than my own.

I am humbled. I am proud to be here and for the first time today I felt alive.

**15****th**** of February, 2014 (Day 10)**

It's been a while. Ten days already, I can't believe how quickly the days go by here. One minute I'm fast asleep the next my small medical tent is bombarded by villagers until the sun tucks itself away behind the town. Although the rapid pace is very much constant, the same cannot be said for the type of day I will have. In that regard, nothing is ever the same. Today a woman came in with a shard of clay from a pot wedged deep in the bottom of her foot, once she was stabilised a man who'd suffered a crack to the skull was laid out on my table. Never a dull day.

I was homesick today. I missed London. I missed Sherlock. The first few days while I was settling in I hardly thought of him, not that I was trying to forget. I'm not here to forget or erase him. I could never do that. It was just a whirlwind of things one after the other that kept my mind preoccupied.

Today I thought of him constantly. A young girl came in with a severe headache and fever several days ago; I would've diagnosed it as typhoid but the symptoms and the time frame in which they appeared didn't fit. I knew Sherlock would have known. Some line on the girl's face or trace of mud on her foot from where she'd been walking would've tipped him off. It took me three days to come to a conclusion. Three days of her writhing in agony as she went into shock. Dengue fever. Sherlock would've known.

Ever since then all I've thought about is him.

They're odd thoughts, mental ones! I've had dreams about him. That long black coat flicking around building corners with me following like an idiot; it's always the same when I round the corner, he's gone. Then there was one where…

**18****th**** of February, 2014 (Day 13)**

What do I care? No one is going to read these.

That dream I had about Sherlock…

It was so odd, so…perfect. I've had it nearly every night since being here.

He's sitting in the flat, legs crossed, paper over his face—it's like we never left Baker Street to run after Moriarty at the pool. We're quiet. Simmering in the morning bliss that is a fry up lingering in the air and heat streaming in through the windows. It's a Sunday. I don't know why I know that but, I do. I sit down across from him.

That's when he looks at me. There's a look on his face that I've never seen before, not on him. I know that look. It's the same one I wear at the prospect of spending the night at a girl's flat.

There's hope there, excitement, and a hint of desire.

I might as well come out with it.

No one will read this. Ever.

I'm having sex dreams about Sherlock Holmes.

Christ.

**25****th**** of February, 2014 (Day 20)**

Right, so, I've been ridiculously busy and even as I'm writing this I know I should probably be trying to sleep because I've got to get up before the sun to start my shift; we've got over three hundred, if not more, vaccines to administer tomorrow. But, I have to get this off my mind.

These dreams won't leave me alone.

At first it was every once in a while, now it's nearly every night.

Not just the sexy ones…though those are the ones that unsettle me most. I can't stop seeing _him_. Those calculating eyes, that annoyingly passive stare that always seems to be trained on me. Assessing. Judging. He keeps popping into my head and reminding me of life before Jim Moriarty and I hate him for it. I hate him because I know my life will never be that golden again.

I'll never smile like I did when I saw him in his element—all hovering hands and deductions.

I'll never be as cross as I was when he called me an idiot, yet so happy that I at least occupied some place in that brilliant mind of his.

In my dreams he comes to me and talks. I don't even follow the cases that my mind is making him spew out, I'm just listening. His mouth is the only thing I can focus on, the way his lips move, how blindingly fast they are when he's on the brink of solving a problem.

That's when it gets…weird. Sherlock notices me noticing him. He sees what I'm looking at, those gorgeous bows.

Then he leans forward so his eyes level with mine and I can't help but get lost in those azure pools like I've always wanted to.

I was too afraid. That's why I hate these dreams. They make me see just how much I missed because of my fear. What was I so afraid of? Of name calling? Of rejection?

If Sherlock had rejected me in any way, even my friendship I wouldn't have survived.

Now look at me.

Look at me.

**26****th**** of February, 2014 (Day 21)**

I can't stand myself. Not today. Not when I wake up in a puddle of my own sweat and a bothersome urge below my belt that I can only satisfy on a carnal level. My heart still aches after the release. My soul still craves that ethereal union.

Every night now, Sherlock Holmes comes to me and drives me to do things I never dreamed.

Even in the most desperate of dry spells in the army I didn't take part in the free love behind the lines. I wasn't against it, I just loved the feel of a woman. Now I can't even stomach the thought of what I did to Sarah.

I had her at my disposal—this leggy, beautiful woman and all I could see was my dead best friend. His sculpted torso, impossibly thin waist, God and that neck with its spattering of misplaced freckles.

That body swallows me so completely at night that sometimes I pray I'll never wake up.

I'm fucked. So properly fucked.

What's wrong with me?

I don't look at men. When I watch my co-workers pass me with streaks of sweat streaming down their tanned skin I don't even offer them a glance. But, with Sherlock, if it was him….I'm not sure what I'd do. I'm not gay.

I've been with more women than sometimes I'd care to admit now that I'm getting older, but I haven't the smallest inclination toward them aside from the basic lust that a man has for a woman.

When I dream. When I'm in his arms. It isn't earthly satisfaction.

It's love.

I love him and I refuse to believe that, that prick didn't know. He knew everything before I did.

And he still jumped.

I can't stand myself today.

4 February, 2014, 12:00am

John's leaving for Africa. UK relief work in Uganda.—MH

4 February, 2014, 12:05am

Oh. Really? Good for him.—SH

4 February, 2014, 12:06am

Would you like me to have him sent home?—MH

4 February, 2014, 12:10am

Obviously John feels the need to get out of London otherwise he wouldn't have left. Leave him.—SH

4 February, 2014, 12:12am

Do you have any idea when you'll be finished Sherlock?—MH

4 February, 2014, 12:12am

I've told you, hounding me will only make me work more slowly.—SH

4 February, 2014, 12:15am

I am not 'hounding' you. I'm simply worried that all will not be as you left it when you return.—MH

4 February, 2014, 12:17am

That's why I have you here, to keep me alert to any major changes.—SH

4 February, 2014, 12:17am

I would consider a move to Uganda a major change.—MH

4 February, 2014, 12:20am

He's not staying forever.—SH

4 February, 2014, 12:21am

All I am saying is that you better prepare yourself for whenever you decide to return home and reveal yourself to John. I don't expect he's a man to simply allow the old pace of your life to resume.—MH

4 February, 2014, 12:30am

You don't know John.—SH

4 February, 2014, 12:31am

No. But I am watching him. It's dull witnessing the unravelling of an army doctor Sherlock.—MH

4 February, 2014, 12:31am

I'm hurrying.—SH

**1****st**** of April, 2014 (Day 27)**

This is going to be short. Today is the big day!

It's really exciting, we're finally branching off to 'the places where none have gone before.' Nigel is here, he'll be assisting the move; we're leaving a small team here to keep providing medical services to Lira. That's a bit sad, I got attached to some of the blokes here—nice kids.

Basically we're moving our efforts to another town in need. It's almost a necessity now. We were beginning to get people coming to Lira from ridiculously far villages; people would walk non-stop for several days just to be treated by us. So, we're going to them now.

We're taking a few of the COHU members including a woman named Mary. Mary Morstan. She's fit, blond, great smile. I think she fancies me a bit…but I'm not here for that.

It's going to be process so I won't have time to write. Don't worry I'll fill you in as soon as I can.

John looked down at his written out thoughts, scrunched his nose and wondered who in the actual hell he was talking to in the last bit. _'I'll fill you in soon'_?

He didn't have time to dissect his internal thoughts, not now; those moments were saved for the quiet nights when he gazed up at his tiny shimmering star and finally found peace after long, exhausting days.

Today he wasn't a doctor. Today he lifted boxes of medical supplies, packed up large cargo vehicles, shoved his personal belongings in a small duffle, and hopped onto the bumper of the last truck leaving Lira. John sat on the door of the bed of the truck, legs dangling off the back, hand waving to the dozens of faces chasing after them to say their goodbyes. John was smiling. The wind was in his hair, dirt stuck to his moist cheeks, the cotton short sleeve he wore clung to his body that had hardened underneath the Ugandan sun from lifting people, boxes, himself. Every day was its own workout regimen in its own right.

Never had he imagined that he would find himself back in his army gear. Trousers with a million and one pockets draped heavily over his legs. Tags clinked beneath as a reminder of who he was, what he had weathered, and how far he'd come, and his tattered shirt that had seen hundreds of hours in the heat of Afghanistan. John tilted his head back and squinted against the sun. It was the perfect day. Well, almost perfect. A hand slid behind him to where he'd stashed his duffle. Tied around the handles was the infamous blue scarf; it flapped in the air like a flag, a monument to his friend. John touched the fabric that was covered in a layer of red dirt. The day was almost perfect.


	6. The Tale of John Watson

**15****th**** of July, 2014 (Day 133)**

It's been so long I don't even know where to start.

Initially when we left Lira back in April we were supposed to stop in one city and plant ourselves there for the summer but plans never pan out as they should when you're working within a war torn country. We'd gotten one box off the truck in Amuria when Nigel was radioed about an emergency evacuation in Northern Uganda. I'm not completely up to date on the politics of it all—frankly I don't want to be. I'm here to help, that's all I need to know. But, basically, we moved to a refugee camp called Bubukwanga (I'll have to check my spelling later). It's unfathomable.

The living conditions are frightening. It wouldn't be so bad if there weren't over nine thousand more people living here than there really should be. Sanitation is the biggest threat. There simply aren't enough facilities to go around.

Between treating these refugees, as well as the locals, we're seeing some fifty thousand people with vaccines, maternity care, and nutritional support.

It's overwhelming.

In a way I miss Lira. As chaotic as it was, there was an ebb and flow to the work. Here it's something new every minute, sporadic, disjointed. I can't even remember anyone's names—not that it matters entirely, these people are migrating. A lot have been evacuated to another neighbouring camp; it's eased the load minimally.

Christ I don't even have time to breathe.

**20****th**** of July, 2014 (Day 138)**

It's official. Cholera and Dysentery are at an all-time high.

The rain isn't helping, neither is one loo per group of eighty two people. This is mental.

We're upping the services but there is only so much you can do with limited staff and supplies. God help us.

**25****th**** of July, 2014 (Day 143)**

I had a day off recently (we're all supposed to get one at some point during the week). Naturally, that doesn't happen as often as it should. It was nice. There isn't much to do really.

Funny enough I spent most of the day doing what I'd normally do…assisting the doctors around our makeshift clinic. I did find time to talk to one of the COHU members though, Mary. God do I feel sorry for her.

It's one thing to be a doctor thrown into this sort of situation but she's never seen a severed hand or cholera. Mary's never witnessed a room full of people sucking down their last breath, she's never held the hand of a dying stranger because that's what you would want if you were on the gurney. She's done good here; setting up schools and preparing the youth for better lives, that is an honourable job. But, it isn't sewing people back together.

Mary and I have really hit it off. She's gorgeous. If I was back in London I might actually have a chance with her. Then again, if I was in London, I'm not sure I'd _want_ the chance.

Anyway…I took lunch with her today. She's from Cardiff originally, small world—but she's been in Uganda for over a year now with her organisation.

Her eyes are so large and brown. I could lose myself in them, just like-

"Enjoy your day off John?" Mary flicked her light blond hair behind her shoulder.

"Sure. If you want to call it that." They grinned across a few hospital beds that they were swapping sheets on.

"I've got these, you should wash up."

Nodding in agreement, John turned around while he rolled up his sleeves, dipped his hand under the tap and scrubbed up to his elbows with a surgical grade soap. It was a day for surgeries. They often lumped them together and knocked out all the major procedures in one day. One, excruciatingly, long day. John was up first with a man that had arrived only minutes ago. Shrapnal embedded in the back, along the deltoid and wedged in the glenohumeral joint.

"You're sure you're ready?" He asked over his shoulder.

Mary bit her bottom lip in a way that made John's stomach tigthen.

"As ready as I'll ever be doctor Watson." She was moving behind John as he turned off the low pressurised water and turned. They bumped into each other, chest to chest. It was such a textbook moment that John felt like he was in a poorly written romantic comedy. "Sorry," she giggled, but she didn't move. John wasn't sure how long they stood like that, faces hovering before one another as water dripped down his upright forearms and into the gathering of his sleeves.

"You should…um," he cleared his throat, "disinfect and help me with gloves."

"Right."

The moment they parted several other doctors came in to sterilise and ready the room for the slew of waiting patients. Mary gloved John, then herself—seconds later, their patient was wheeled in. Hours upon hours stacked themselves on John's shoulders as he bent over the table with a scalpel and pair of tongs. Once the shoulder injury was sewn up, bandaged, and the man was escorted out, he was being changed from head to toe. Scrubs were tossed off—thank goodness Mary had left the room for another box of gloves, his arms were exfoliated again, then he was reclothed with more black scrubs and provided with fresh gloves to cover his sterile hands.

Another surgery. Severe head trauma.

Another. Bullet wound.

Another. Open fracture in the leg.

It was dark outisde when John was finished. He had clocked in ten hours of surgery—with that amount of time spent repairing the body it hardly mattered that he and another surgeon switched every other time off. It was exhausting.

He traded in his scrubs for civilian clothes that were hardly anything like what he would have worn in London.

John fully intended on skipping dinner. It was well past eight anyway and all his body really wanted was a complete shutdown. The doctor pushed by the tent flap and into the cool Ugandan air. Nights were beautiful here. He cocked his head back to take in the shimmering carpet overhead, millions of blinking stars, and that unusually bright one still hovering above his personal tent. John sucked in a deep breath of the clear air and shuffled toward his temporary home.

On his way he ran into that familiar gathering of curly sunkissed locks.

"Getting some sleep?"

"Will be," he motioned toward his thick canvas hut.

"Good. It's been a long day." Mary fell in step beside him, her arm linked with his amiably. John rested his hand over hers and sighed wearily.

"I can't believe how tired I am." They laughed. It must have been the lack of sleep making him feel so pleasantly giggly. "You holding up all right? It's not easy to see…all that."

Mary let out a soft sigh and shook her head so that her golden tresses danced around her feminine features. "I don't know how you do it or, I should say, how you've done it for so many years." Her fingers curled around John's elbow as her head fell into his shoulder. "You're a good man John." The crunching of gravel stopped when they neared the mouth of his tent; their bodies turned, still connected by their arms.

"I mean it," she whispered. Long, feather-like fingers reached up to brush away the salt encrusted fringe pasted to John's forehead. "Anyone would be lucky to have you…"

"Mary." He breathed that name across the small expanse between them as she pressed into the barrier he'd worked so hard to keep around himself. "I'm not the sort of man you probably imagine me to be."

"Ooo, big strong soldier not solely wounded on the battlefield?" She placed her hand over his heart.

"It's not like that—"

John couldn't explain. His lips were too busy making a home against hers, sucking along that thick lower lip that reminded him of…

He threw his hands up to cup her delicate jawline, pulling her closer, desperate to rid himself of the nagging thoughts of the past that haunted him. Their tongues met in the interim, nudging eagerly at one another the way horses touch muzzles. Gentle. Curious. One hand slipped up into those lucious silken curls, holding her neck.

"Whatever it is John," she gasped against his mouth, "I'll make you forget it ever happened."

John's heart broke in his chest but his body knew what it wanted, it took over. They tumbled into his small home and collapsed in a heap onto the cot. Mary was a dominant creature. She seized the opportunity to steal the top, her long legs somehow cramming between John's thighs and the strong metal that made up the structure of his bed. Her body devoured him. His arms rested at the back of her elbows, encouraging her to remove the dirtied clothing from his body; then she was tugging him, commanding him to do the same.

They were a writhing mass of sweat and flesh, breathing together, rolling into the other like opposite waves crashing into the shoreline.

"Don't worry." Her voice was raspy against his ear where she was licking. "I'm protected."

It was funny, he didn't find himself worrying anyway. Of course he didn't want children right now but, the idea of them _someday_ was appealing. Worst case scenario—he'd wind up back in Cardiff raising a child with this fit philanthropist. There were worse outcomes.

Before he could respond or even protest she was pressing down on him. That slick heat enveloped his body in the most satisfying way. John shut his eyes against the delicious sensation of being pushed in that tight, moist heat and grunted. They were in sync. John with his hips bucking up at a steady rate while Mary bounced on top of him like the most skilled of riders.

"Jesus Christ." John's head thumped back against the sturdy canvas below. If she kept up her pace it would be embarrassing how quickly he was done for. Then again, it had been quite some time since he'd last been with Sarah. He shook his head. Now wasn't the time for thoughts, that much he was certain of as his body, once again, hauled the reins into its own hands and released the hungry, aching man within him.

John bent himself in half, sitting upright so his teeth could take each rosy nipple in his mouth and nibble until they were hard buds in his mouth. Mary was mewing, her hands lost as they roamed his body and curled in his hair. Their hips never stopped. Sweat dripped down their fronts, the Ugandan heat captured in John's tent from the day's sun was sweltering but it didn't stop them. Mary shoved John back down, catching him off guard. Aggressive. John grinned at that. She was so unlike the women of his past. He wouldn't let being imprisoned on his back stop him from enjoying her tight body though; both hands kneaded her stomach, up to cup her full breasts and slick his lingering saliva over her tanned skin.

"John!" Her head flopped back, eyes shut, hair sticking to her damp back. Mary was gasping for air between bouts of spasming muscles. John could practically feel her climax riding along the sensitive ridge of his hard flesh buried deep inside her. "Oh, Mary. Come on," he growled. John wrapped her in a tight embrace and forced her to lay chest to chest with him. His hips worked tirelessly, pounding up against her body until their lower halves were flushed red and Mary was biting down on his shoulder to muffle her cries. Falling. Crashing into him. Her body shook in the aftermath. Panting. Grabbing at his slick skin. A scattering of kisses splashed over his neck and clavicle. John wasn't far behind. Only a few more blissful pumps into his lover and John was arching back.

At the end of it all John was amazed they hadn't broken his flimsy cot. At the end of it all John still felt empty, like a chunk of him was permanently missing—he had learned to get used to that feeling. No one, no woman or man, would ever fill the hole Sherlock had left. That was the cold, honest truth and if he was to find _any_ happiness in his life, he had to accept that. So, instead of hiding away inside his head and mourning the loss of that warm glow in his soul, he held Mary. Cooed in her ear, ran light fingers up and down her back; John acted in all the ways a man should to a woman. As long as he could pretend maybe his life would get back some of its substance.

**31****st**** of July, 2014 (Day 149)**

Life here is no more settled here than the first day we arrived; not that I ever expected it to be. We've done some work on the surrounding towns, several hour drives to set up small clinics. Luckily, we didn't have to part with any of our staff—I would've staged a rebellion if they had, we're understaffed as it is. I'm told Nigel has a fresh set of doctors coming in to fill those facilities.

Things with Mary and I are great. She comes to "visit" me quite often, every night almost but, we're quick about her leaving in the morning. Neither of us want the attention of something akin to an office romance.

I'm not sure what her intentions are as far as what we're going to do after Uganda. I know it's only been a few days but…I enjoy her company. The sex is great but what I value most is having a human being around that doesn't make me think of Sherlock. She knows nothing about my past and maybe she never will.

It isn't that I want to write Sherlock out or forget—well, in some ways I'd like to forget. The image of him, of his blood, pooling on the cement in front of St. Bart's is one I wish I could wipe away entirely. But I can't get rid of it. Just like I'll never get rid of this dull ache inside my pathetic heart whenever I think of him, whenever I imagine what _could've_ been.

I miss him.

I've got Mary now.

15 July, 2014, 12:00pm

John's moved locations again, still in Uganda but now toward a more remote area. A refugee camp.—MH

15 July, 2014, 12:15pm

You're telling me this why?—SH

15 July, 2014, 12:16pm

You asked for updates, did you not?—MH

15 July, 2014, 12:16pm

Yes, but I don't need an entire record of the exact moments John breathes.—SH

15 July, 2014, 12:17pm

He's met someone. A woman named Mary Morstan.—MH

15 July, 2014, 12:17pm

Who is she?—SH

15 July, 2014, 12:20pm

No one of importance really. Just a volunteer in a different organisation stationed in Uganda.—MH

15 July, 2014, 12:21pm

Has she set her sights on him as well, then?—SH

15 July, 2014, 12:22pm

Oh, I believe she's more than her sight on him.—MH

15 July, 2014, 12:22pm

I'm almost finished.—SH

15 July, 2014, 12:23pm

How finished is _almost_?—MH

15 July, 2014, 12:24pm

I need more time Mycroft.—SH

15 July, 2014, 12:26pm

You can have all the time in the world little brother, from me. But do not expect John to oblige you in the same way. He does think you're dead, you know.—MH

It was the end of July when Sherlock found himself back in London; he was, by no means, done with his work but he managed to spare his older brother a few minutes of his precious time. He found the eldest Holmes in the most likely place—his office. As much as it pained him to receive help from his brother he had little choice otherwise. All that sustained him during his time away was the thrill of bringing down the largest criminal web in the history of the world and, of course, the small updates of his only friend. Mycroft was never one for major details, especially via text. However, something as simple as '_John Watson seen leaving Tesco this morning'_, was enough to make his jaw unclench and strengthen his resolve to finish his work so he could exchange this migratory life for the one back in 221B.

Some days Sherlock hated John for what he had done to him. Clearly he was broken, beyond repair, ruined. The detective had never been the same since meeting that ex-army surgeon. Never in his life had he cared for anyone else's wellbeing but his own—maybe his lab rats in Uni but that was all in the name of science. John Watson was a game changer. The man had waltzed into Sherlock's life looking for a steal on a nice flat, little did he know he had thieved a treasure of greater value; not that Sherlock Holmes would ever own up to _needing_ anything, anyone. That was a human tendency that he was not willing to imitate. Aside from the usual lust for cases, Sherlock didn't desire a thing.

Until he met John.

Now he wanted John's approval, wanted his companionship, wanted to be surrounded by that passion he saw dwelling deep in his flatmate's gaze. Why he craved such things was a mystery. Whatever bloomed between he and the doctor was untestable, mysterious, annoying. Sherlock could only hypothesise but he never approved of the explanation because it was simply impossible that he care for anything more than _the game_.

"Sherlock, you've looked better." Mycroft stepped into his aphotic room, tapping the end of his umbrella on the floor with each step.

"And you've put on weight again, can we drop the pleasantries Mycroft?"

The elder had plopped into his lush desk chair with a weary sigh; his elbows rested on his desk, fingers laced with his chin resting on the backs of them.

"What do you need?"

"How is John?"

"I've sent you the texts, are they not going through?"

Mycroft need only to look at his little brother for half a second to see the change in him. Physically he'd slimmed down even more, his raven curls seemed much too long around his gaunt face, and if it was possible, his skin had lost even more colour. That was all obvious. It was the internal morph that Sherlock had undergone that interested Mycroft most. Time away from Baker Street, from John had done something to his brother's stone covered heart. Sherlock _missed_ John. There had been a nagging fear from the moment he laid eyes on that little doctor—he was trouble. Somewhere along the way John Watson had convinced Sherlock, unknowingly, to love. Not just in general but, to love him. That silly little dark haired nuisance listened and now found himself homesick and grabbing at scraps just to get a taste of John.

"He's coping."

"Elaborate."

"John is going through all the perfectly normal stages of grief Sherlock. He thinks his friend is dead, what else do you expect him to do?"

"Has he stopped crying?"

"You told me not to fill you in on all the details."

"Has he?"

"I have no evidence that he's cried since he's left London."

Sherlock was nodding his head. "Good." A few moments of silence passed.

"Is that all you needed?" Their eyes met. Mycroft knew then that Sherlock hadn't really needed anything. There wasn't some important question bubbling under his skin; he just wanted to be near John and this was as close as he could get. After watching his younger brother open and close his mouth several times he made a move to speak. "He's adjusting to life in Africa well," Mycroft began. The story of John Watson was a fairly lengthy one, he had sources all along the doctor's travels so he could give Sherlock specifics when he wanted them. So, he told his junior about the heat, the dust, the wounds, the people; all the while Sherlock was on the edge of his seat, staring at Mycroft with wide, calculating eyes. Anyone else would have felt threatened by the intense gaze sitting upon them like that but Mycroft was used to the pressure. By the end of his story he'd caught Sherlock up to the information he had received early that morning.

"I'm not sure how serious it is with Ms. Morstan but, I'm sure time will tell."

"It should be serious. If John wants it to be. He'd make sure it was, John is very thorough, and maybe too much so— I think that's why a lot of his past relationships blew up in his face. John knows what he wants and he can be rather aggressive which scares the fairer sex off. But, if John is going to be steady with this woman he will make it happen."

Sherlock was rambling. Mycroft was smiling.

"She can be removed."

"No! No." The detective cleared his throat. "Don't be stupid."

"Why not? She's a thorn in your side, clearly."

Sherlock knew better than to argue because Mycroft saw just as much as him, if not more.

"John…deserves to be happy." Such a phrase had never been formed on the youngest Holmes' tongue. Even Mycroft inclined his head slightly and regarded his brother with a raised brow. "If _she_ does that I have no say. I am dead, after all."

Sherlock was quick, on his feet. "I'm working as fast as I can." That infamous, dark coat whipped around his lean shoulders.

"Sherlock."

"I've got to keep going, last flight out leaves soon."

"Sherlock."

"If I don't go now I'll be forced to wait until tomorrow—"

"Sherlock!" It was on rare occasions that Sherlock looked small in the shadow of his taller brother. Mycroft had pounded his hands on his desk as he rose.

"You don't need to do this." His tone was much softer now, understanding.

"Yes, I do."

"But at what cost? Hm? Your happiness? John's?"

"John is making strides toward brighter days. That's all I wanted."

The too-thin detective disappeared without another word. He'd gotten what he came for. Mycroft sat back down and ran a hand through his auburn hair.

He would not soon forget the actual _pain_ in his brother's eyes. Sherlock caring. Needing. Loving. John Watson had done the unthinkable—he'd made Sherlock Holmes aware of the existence of his heart and taught him how to use it.


	7. Everything in its Right Place

**15****th**** of December, 2014 (Day 286)**

It would be impossible to catch you up on everything that's happened. It's been at least five months since I last updated this thing, Dr. Thompson won't like that I'm sure; but it happens when you're fighting the strongest wave of Arboviruses this country has ever seen.

There are no words. I say that a lot, I know, but in all seriousness I don't think we can keep up. Our organisation is just too small to handle this much sickness.

Yesterday we ran out of vaccines, today we're running on our last several hundred antidotes. It's madness.

Mary went back to Lira. COHU deemed our camp 'too dangerous' for someone without medical training so, she left several days ago. It's funny, I'm not as torn up as I thought I would be. The first night was difficult but the next morning I woke up, went to work, and truly haven't thought about her. Does that make me a horrible human being? When she's here, when I can physically touch her I care for Mary more than anything else; she's a beautiful woman and a shining example of a lovely, selfless human being but I don't miss her. _What's wrong with me?_

I spent five months shagging her, nearly every night. I told Mary things that I've never told any other woman. _Woman._ But that nagging, empty pit in the middle of my chest is still churning like an endless black hole, sucking everything good and happy into it. She's not my best friend. She doesn't have a set of thick, raven curls that she tousles when she's frustrated. Her rosebud lips only open to form the tenderest words. And yet, somehow, in my warped, fucked brain—I crave Sherlock Holmes. In about a month it'll be two years.

_In a month._

I'm going home in a month.

London. The busy streets. The undeniable pulse of life.

Sherlock.

221B.

I'm going home and I'm terrified.

But I also cannot wait.

John,

I feel I owe you a sincere apology. Not only because my handwriting has not improved over the last two years but really, because I've wronged you. What I did was for your own good. I know that's not what it has felt like since you watched me plunge to my permanent destination; but, trust me, it was a choice made for the betterment of the many. There are no words that could explain the pain I felt and still feel seeing your life crumble as you wallow in the grief I never fathomed you would feel for me. You and I both know, from prior experiences that I don't express myself well, or at all. Anything beyond frustration with the stupidity of the masses and 'inappropriate' excitement over tantalising crimes I have always deemed as unnecessary. When I met you and I saw what you were made of; pure emotion, fire and rage, and love and compassion, all the things I knowingly stunted in my young life—I was captivated.

I regret not telling you these things earlier, that along with being my most adept conductor, you are also my friend. Despite the things I may say that are less than amiable, you are, everything. Everything I am not. I've thought and re-thought all the possible explanations for our friendship and I can only conclude that, just as opposite poles of magnets gravitate to one another, we do too. If I may dip into one of the analogies I once read in your emails to Janette (one of your better ones I might add); we are very much the sun and moon, in constant orbit, chasing after one another, but never truly being able to meet. That is how I've felt. Now that I'm no longer consumed with The Game that nearly killed you, I can see far more clearly what we've missed in our lifetime together. I say this because I do not assume that any amount of romantic poetry or logical reasoning will persuade you to accept my brand of friendship again; that is not a promise, however, that I will not try to coax you back into the thrill of things when I return.

And I do intend to return.

What I'm doing now cannot be laid out in writing, too much is at stake at present. Trust though, that I've been unravelling all the work that we only speculated about in the comfort of our humble flat. The criminal weavings of our nemesis are vast and far more complex than the average human brain can imagine. The only thing that keeps this adventure from being fun is your absence. If I could have my blogger at my heel, with that trusty Browning hovering over my shoulder, I'm sure I wouldn't be stuck in Prague in an empty train station without a lead.

With all of that tediousness out of the way…I am sorry.

Yours,

Sherlock Holmes

That letter sat in Sherlock's hands for several hours. With a curve in his spine he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and stare at his writing. The train station he was in was completely empty save for the occasional night crawler who was trying to catch the earliest train out. Sherlock had been there since nine at night, it was two in the morning now.

During his time he had plucked out a pen and used the back of his schedule to pour out his thoughts, all the things he'd been meaning to tell John the farther they drifted apart. He knew, because he wasn't ignorant how the human heart worked, that their relationship was in jeopardy. As much as he believed that he should be allowed to return, no questions asked—well, maybe a few, normal people did not think that way. John was all heart when it came to his actions and hardly any head; he wouldn't look at the situation and say '_yes, this was for my own good'_. No, Sherlock could already see the fist waiting for him and the spill of choice words.

He stared at the piece of paper in his hand with its wrinkles and stains—that didn't mar the feelings seeped into black ink, it was all there, the extent of Sherlock Holmes' emotions. Both hands clapped together to destroy the evidence. The train schedule was smashed. Those carefully chosen words were pressed together, forever hidden away because ultimately they would go unheeded.

A loud whistle echoed through the empty hall. Sherlock got up, tossed his literature into a bin, and headed toward the train he intended to board.

Tomorrow it would be two years.

Two years since he had seen John.

He was nearly done. Nearly.

"Johnny!"

"Harry."

John Watson strode out of the doors with his bags slung over his shoulder like some young soldier returning from war. Into his arms flew a stringy little thing, the same blond hair and greyish blues. An echoing thump from his bags and then happy giggles filled the bustling parkway.

"Hello you, my, you're as brown as a nut." Harry pulled back and tugged at her brother's collar.

"I have been abroad for quite some time," he teased as he bent to pick up his things.

"Yes, about six months too long."

"These things can't be helped."

It had turned out that John's journey home had been delayed for another six months due to unrest in Uganda. Many things, including public transport, were shut down for the safety of civilians. John didn't hate the time he had to spend in that camp but he was more than a little let down—he'd spent a good chunk of days mentally preparing for London only to have it snatched out of reach.

"You look good Harry…healthy." He had been worried to rely on his sister but with Sarah visiting family she was really the only transport he had. But it was a pleasant surprise to see her skin flush with colour and her eyes bright as they'd once been in their childhood.

"Yeah, I've been doing well," she linked her arm through his as they searched for her vehicle. "Clara and I are getting on too." The siblings shared a smile.

"I'm happy for you." John leaned over and planted a kiss at her temple.

The pair eventually loaded up the car and started off for Baker Street. John would've been lying if he said he wasn't nervous but, those nerves were quelled at the thought of Mrs. Hudson. That familiar face would brighten everything, just as it had in the years before.

"Thanks Harry," John was stepping out of her car and gathering his bags, "I mean it. We should…fix things, I don't know, have dinner."

"Sounds good." His younger sister pecked his cheek before popping back into her car and leaving him on the steps of his old flat.

It was surreal how utterly the same everything was. John felt like he had never even left. Speedy's was still there, pouring out the scent of its fresh breads and their door, the familiar thick wood still brandished old scars—each with its own story to tell. John ran a reverential hand along the dips and curves of it, remembering. Those scarred fingers fell to the handle, clicked it open, and pushed the door inside. The scent of Mrs. Hudson's cooking wafted over him in a thick plume. Then there was that smell that had always been there, it was unique to the stairwell and one of the things that made John's stomach clench in anticipation for the rest of the house.

Slowly, he scaled the steps. Stair by stair. Then he stood in front of their door. With a steadying breath in, he entered.

It seemed odd that everything should look the same. Two and a half years had ticked by but here was 221B, the same as ever, and with that damn Cluedo board still stabbed above the mantle. John didn't cry over that sight like he had imagined—he laughed. Instead of walking into his home and feeling that crushing sadness that had followed him like a dog desperate for attention, he was finally able to look at their home and remember his friend with fondness. John dropped his bags. The ex-soldier was on the couch running his palms along the wallpaper and over those holes his flatmate had left so long ago. Then he jumped down and touched the desk, the windows, the old books that Mrs. Hudson had kept free of dust since his departure, then he rested on that skull—Sherlock's 'friend'.

Everything was in its right place. And so was he.


End file.
